


Speak less than though knowest

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confederate AU, Conversations, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, References to Shakespeare, Romance, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: It was a shock, to see a man she cared for collapse. It was the most familiar feeling in the world.





	Speak less than though knowest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/gifts).



“Drink this,” Mary said, holding the glass tumbler to his lips. Jedediah was pale but alert enough to take a gulp of the liquor.

“You’re done with temperance now, I gather,” he said, gasping a little.

“Take a little more before you mock me,” Mary said sharply. His color was coming back and the clarity in his dark gaze. She had loosened his collar and she saw how his throat worked, swallowing another draught. He hadn’t felt feverish—what could it have been? Their dance ended abruptly when he stumbled, almost fainting; she had been lucky to get him onto the sofa beneath the window, where the drapes had not been drawn against the night sky.

“I’m sorry. For everything,” he said. For nearly collapsing? For their solitary waltz? For commandeering her house—and stealing her equanimity? They were questions she couldn’t answer.

“Never you mind. Drink it all down and then we’ll see how you are,” she said. He’d grasped the glass in his right hand but now raised the other to touch her hand, to stroke, very gently, the curve of her cheek.

“I’m sorry I frightened you. I have spells, from time to time. Ever since I was a boy, but they’ve grown worse after the War,” he said. “I’ll be fine, you don’t need to fret.”

“Who said I was fretting?” Mary asked, unsettled, eager for him to touch her again, to run from the room and cool her flaming cheeks in the chill of the dark night.

“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” he said, letting his hand fall away. “I only meant to thank you, to apologize for ruining your evening.”

“Nothing’s ruined. Not if you aren’t ill,” she said, watching him smile, a fond, tender smile matching the warmth in his eyes.

“They’ll be no more dancing tonight, I’m afraid. Not here, not in the ballroom,” he said.

“There’s no ballroom, only Mrs. Green’s double parlor,” Mary said. “And I don’t mind. One waltz was enough,” she added, letting herself remember the pleasure of being held close in his arms, the risk it posed, how her heart had pounded—the strength of his hand against her back, guiding her around the floor, the sense of attunement they’d shared and the reciprocated longing they’d recognized, wordlessly, as they moved.

“Enough for what?” Jed asked, sipping again from the glass of spirits. She wished she had her own, to draw out the moment, to let the alcohol be responsible for the truth, for the lies she would have to tell.

“Enough for tonight. I won’t have you taking another spell, I couldn’t bear it—to see you fall ill,” she said slowly. He set down the empty glass and took her hand in his, stroked his thumb against the softness of her palm, an intimacy unfamiliar, arresting. She made a sound she didn’t know, a cry that was meant to be swallowed in a kiss. He flushed—and she felt him tremble.

“I couldn’t bear it if you should fall—I shouldn’t be able to break your fall, you see, and if you break any of Mrs. Green’s treasured ornaments, I shouldn’t think you’ll survive her wrath,” Mary said smartly, getting the result she wanted, Jed’s sudden laughter.

“Oh Mary! How dear you are,” he exclaimed.

“Enough foolishness,” she said, shocked by his words, by his steady regard as he spoke, his hand still warm against her own.

“You’ll never stop me being a fool,” he said, a little bitterly and she thought he could not only mean the waltz, the evening on her porch, the look in his eyes when the boy had cried out as after his operation.

“A wise Fool, perhaps,” she said, letting him hear her sincerity, her fearful affection, letting him understand something secret about her, if he would.

“‘She is herself a dowry,’” he replied and then was quiet. There were sounds around them, the distant din of the party and the occasional hiss of the candles that lit the room with the moon’s help. The moon was silent and the shadows were, but not their hearts and not their paired breath. Some noise would come, they knew, but it might be forever; there was no clock but their hands, clasped together in lieu of everything else.

**Author's Note:**

> I went full Lear on this one, title and references! Jed does not have typhoid or typhus or a morphine addiction here, more likely a migraine spectrum episode or panic, both of which the trauma of War would worsen.


End file.
